“Feel free to fuck right off with that bullshit,” I say.
Nicki laughs. “It is only by playing you at your best that I can get better,” she says. “Just like you up against Stepanova with that slice all those years ago. I’m the best player in the WTA. I need someone else—someone great—to push me up against the ropes. And here you come back, just in time. Just for me.”
“Not for you,” I say.
“Right, for you,” she says. “I’m just the excuse you needed.”
She’s right, despite how it irritates me. I was never really done before. I was always going to do this: show up and fight one last time.
“Either way, one of us is the catalyst for the other reaching their greatest height yet.”
“All right,” I say. “Good night, Nicki.”
“Good night, mate.”
“I’m not your mate,” I say, shaking my head. “I may have had a drink with you, but we are not mates.”
“We are mates,” Nicki says. “And that’s good—do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because if you’d made a few mates during your time in the WTA the first go-round, I don’t think you would have had such a jittery right hand these past few years.”
I look up at her and it’s clear she meant to cut, but I can’t tell whether she knows how deep the knife just went in.
“All right,” I say. “That’s my cue to leave.”
The bartender pops her head up. Her eyes go wide, looking at the two of us. “Wait, are you Nicki Chan?”
Nicki smiles wide and lopsided, a dimple forming. “Why, yes, I am,” she says. “Number one in the world. Record holder for the most Grand Slam singles ever.”
“And yet she’s only won Wimbledon twice,” I say to the bartender. “Isn’t that funny?”
* * *
—
Two days before the start of Wimbledon, I find out that my father is being released from the hospital, and I breathe out so completely that I wonder how long I’ve been holding that breath. When the draft comes in, I call him at home to discuss.
“Read it to me,” my father says over the phone.
“I play Cami Dryer in the first round,” I say, looking at the pages that had been faxed to my hotel earlier today. I throw myself down on the sofa.
“Piece of cake, she can’t anticipate,” my dad says. “Hit your marks, you’ll be fine. Who is after that?”
I gauge who is likely to win the other match. “Probably Lucy Cameron.”
“She’s easy to ruffle,” my dad says.
I look up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Break her early and I’m probably good. Then after that it’s…” I pull the chart up to my eyeline for a second. “Martin or Nystrom.”
“It will be Nystrom, most likely,” my dad says.
“No way,” I say. I’m up now, pacing. “Martin is the better player.”
“Martin has had a lot of trouble in the past adjusting her game to grass. She plays too far back on the court. It will be Nystrom, unless Martin has gotten a better coach.”
“Well, Nystrom I can take. Her volley game is good, but her serve is shit—I can break her in the first game.”
“Exactly. Next?”
“Could be Johns.”
“Slow as an ox,” my dad says. “She can’t keep up. If she gets to you, just keep the ball moving quick. If you set the pace from the jump and don’t let up, she’s out.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Who’s next?”
“Don’t you think you should be relaxing?” I say.
“No, I don’t,” my father says. “Not while my daughter prepares for Wimbledon. Now, who is next?”
“Probably Moretti,” I say. “By the looks of it.”
“Who else could it be?” he says.
“Maybe Machado.”
“I’d put money on Machado,” he says.
“Why?”
“She’s an underestimated player, but she adjusts very quickly. Moretti only has one mode of play: power. Machado has more shots. I think it’s Machado.”
“So then what do I do?” I say.
“If it does end up Moretti, she’s not strong on the run, so keep her there and her game will fall apart. If it’s Machado…I think you stay economical at the beginning, play percentage tennis. If you win the first set, you’re well on your way. If you don’t, you have to win the next two sets, but you’re not as tired as she is.”